The Night Watchman
The brothel was cold, but inviting and the numbness of her panting, surreal. Unhappiness and self-pity. And then asleep, her snoring pleasurable, gentle in the murky slumber. Foul smells emanate from under the kitchen door, no whisky on the night-table, and then the market fires go out. Written by Jack Brewis
The Yellow Digger
Train-track engineering and planned maintenance, hard graft, and that cunting yellow digger wakes them up at 7am. With dirty little teeth, it smashes away at virgin concrete clean, looking for pipes that engineers need to find to do their jobs, to deliver food and money to their families, while alcoholics need more sleep to try and
Rachel Kadinsky
Soft fingers on rolled paper, red lips waiting. I flip the lid of my old brass Zippo from ’86, the hinge sticking in the same old place, and I grind the wheel. A sooty flame whooshes up and bursts into life, a clichéd dance of orange and blue, the sting of the kerosene hitting the
